Don't Let Go
by Melanthe Vida
Summary: Some things just won't let go, no matter how hard you pull. SpikeAngel.
1. Fine

Disclaimer: Sadly, none of the boys are mine (nor is Illyria, while we're at it)

**Note:** Post Not Fade Away. Written 3rd person, but strictly from Spike's POV.

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Ch. 1: Fine

Whores line the dark streets and drunks stumble about per usual. On glass windows, signs proclaiming "COME IN WE'RE OPEN!" or some other variation thereof glow haphazardly in bright, neon colours. Loud, bass-filled music blare from within clubs as he passes by them, fading away as he moves on. The end of the world as everyone knew it had come and gone and they all felt fine.

He doesn't feel fine. He's tried, but he can't seem to make himself feel that way. And from the looks of it, Angel doesn't feel too fine, either.

Spike's hand moves almost instinctively to his wrist.

_--"you don't speak of her, boy. You hear?"--_

He still has a lovely black-purple tattoo around it, but that's only decorative. The real art is in the crushed bones. Or was. He's not sure if they're still crushed by now. He just knows he probably won't be writing for a week or so.

Even Illyria wasn't confident enough that night to saunter curiously into the room like she usually does after their commotions.

Looking back, it wasn't so much the mention of Her that set Angel off, but rather that Spike used Her to get the stupid ponce to snap out of his funk.

_--"get over it, Angelus! She would've wanted that."--_

Or maybe Angel lost it because the statement was purely hypocritical—Spike hasn't moved on, either. It always comes back to golden strands soaked with blood and little dead girls everywhere. Little girls whom he realizes he barely knew, despite having lived with most for the better part of a year. Little girls from around the globe, brought together by some hocus-pocus from the household witch. Hocus-pocus had not saved her in the end.

He hadn't known then that red hair could appear bloodstained, but he knows better now.

Angel turns into a little bar and Spike follows 'cause he's pretty much followed in daddy's footsteps in a metaphorical sense all his unlife. Might as well do it literally, too.

He orders a bottle of tequila and starts to pick it up, then winces and switches over to his right hand with a scowl. He can feel Angel's fingertips running lightly over the bruises and he wants to jerk away, but apparently his limbs aren't connected with his brain because nothing happens. So he opts to get Angel to do so instead.

"Like that you marked me, eh, Peaches?"

Angel draws back exactly on cue. Ah, the wonders of predictability.

"I'm sorry. I never meant—"

Spike cocks an eyebrow and lights a fag.

"Sure you did, Angel. Enjoyed it, too."

Angel's silent for a while. One minute, five minutes, ten minutes, twelve. Clearly, a response won't be coming. Not that Spike expected one to. Angel is the absolute embodiment of Caveman—most of his responses, if there are any at all, are limited to grunts, gestures, and monosyllabic words.

Spike sighs and downs some more of the burning alcohol...although, it ceased to burn some time back. He wonders briefly if that's supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing, then he moves on to debating whether or not it was possible for Blue to get drunk. Then he notices the place is on a slight angle and spinning a bit. Huh. That's funny. Guess tequila's stronger than he thought. Shame it doesn't make him feel any more fine. In fact, it only seems to make him feel less so, and all of sudden, he's more sober and wanting to be far, far away from so many people. It's too crowded; reminds him too much of a home filled with giggling teenage girls and the occasional male.

Except he can't see said giggling girls or any of them without all the extra details—the blood and gore and death—filling in soon after. He wishes there were photos to look at, but there are none. Angel doesn't have any either; his were buried along with the W&H building.

Tapping Angel on the arm, he stands up. It's their unspoken agreement: Angel picks the place, Spike chooses when to leave. Of course, it doesn't always work out that way...

"Maybe a little," Angel says as they step back onto the street.

"Huh?"

"Marking you. I liked it a little."

Spike frowns and with some focus, manages to recall their previous conversation.

He wonders why his sire is talking more than usual tonight.

"So what prompted this lil' confession?"

Angel merely shrugs.

Guess he's not talking more than usual after all.

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TBC...

Lemme know what you think!


	2. Dreams

Thanks for all the reviews, everyone!

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Ch. 2: Dreams

Sometimes Spike has this dream. That he is in the middle of a blood sea and hair is raining down on him. A monsoon of single, delicate strands of red, brown, black, but mostly blond hair together wrap around him and pull him underneath the crimson surface. He can't see what's underneath when he's pulled down—can't see at all, in fact—but he knows what's there. Who is there. He knows and he can't breathe. The stench and metallic taste of blood makes him sick. It's all absurd because he doesn't need to breathe and blood is what he lives off of for Christ's sake, but that's just how the dream works.

He woke up screaming the first day. Still does. Or so he's told. He can't quite remember, what with being scared stiff at the moment. He does, however, remember Angel dashing into the room, alarm written all over his face. He remembers the strong arms that wrapped around him and the soothing purr that resounded through his mind until he fell asleep. The hushed words, meaningless but comforting.

The same dream occurred the next day. And the next and the next and the next.

Around the fifth day, Angel decided to sleep with him and has done so ever since. The dream still comes sometimes, but not as frequently and he wakes up sooner now. This doesn't make him shake any less violently afterwards.

Angel, too, has his share of bad dreams. Spike doesn't know what they're about since he's never asked—has known better than to ask—but Angel never screams like Spike. In fact, Spike only knows of these dreams because Angel is right beside him and he can hear the heavy, ragged breathing, feel the bed quiver as Angel tosses and turns. But there are no screams, no moans, no whimpers. Angel is as silent in his fantasy land as he is in the real world.

Spike knows it has to do with the few hundred or so years Angel spent in the fiery pits. He knows because he asked once. The question was meant to be rhetorical; he hadn't been looking for an answer, but after a very long time, when Spike had pretty much forgotten about asking anything at all, he heard Angel's quiet, barely audible reply:

"They never liked it. Not like she did."

"She" in this case refers to another blond, the one in Angel's life long before the other was even born. The one that started it all, really, in Spike's opinion. Of course, he's glad, in a way. If it weren't for her, he'd be six feet under the earth right now. Six feet under and untroubled and free from ghosts and blissfully ignorant...

Maybe he's not so glad.

The arm around him tightens, drawing him closer to the large body underneath.

Spike always makes sure he is on top of Angel. He has learned that if they're side by side, Angel, in the unconscious throes of sleep, will often roll over on top of him.

Illyria has nightmares, too, though she insists she does not have any such thing playing inside her head. To her, nightmares "were objects that trembled before her", nothing more. She is clearly lying when she says so, but Spike doesn't call her on it. Even a god needs illusions sometimes. Just because Spike cannot weave his own doesn't mean he goes around shattering the ones others have created.

That's not to say that the temptation to do so—the "if-I-can't-have-it-neither-can-you" syndrome—isn't constantly there.

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TBC 


	3. The Desk

Ch. 3: The Desk

It broke. Bloody desk. Why the hell does the pouf have one anyhow? It's not like there's any use for it. 'Course, it is Angel's link to the past. Days of playing Batman and helping the hopeless. Spike kind of wishes he has a link to the past, too, one that he can hold in his hands. He doesn't even have his duster, not his original one anyway.

Damn Italians.

Angel's desk is no more, though, and Spike remains adamant to the conclusion that it is not his fault. In principle, he's right.

But Spike is the one who brought up the People. People that belong to Before and that, according to Angel, must stay there unless otherwise stated.

_--"how come you don't say anything anymore?"_

_--"I—I talk. I'm talking now."_

_--"I meant anything meaningful. Words come, but they're empty, mate."_

_--The statement was a shadow of his Victorian poet days. Clichéd and unoriginal. But it hit home._

_--"since when did you become so metaphorical?"_

_--"you never say anything about...you know, about them. Like they never existed to you."_

_--Angel leapt to his feet at that and slammed both palms on the table so hard the thing creaked. Then collapsed. Crash, bang. Books and papers and pens scattered to the floor.--_

Angel's scowling now. Or rather, the permanent scowl on his face has deepened.

Spike glares at him, daring him to say anything. Angel being Angel takes the dare.

"Get out, Spike. Right now."

Bastard.

"It's not me who went an' pounded my great, hulking, gorilla hands on—ow!" Angel's shoved him up against the wall. "Christ, 's only a desk, for fuck's sake."

Angel lets him go. Looks a little guilty. "Sorry."

He's not getting off that easy.

"Y'know, mate, say a word enough and it'll become invisible."

"Well, what the hell else do you want me to say?"

Pretty soon, they're both yelling again. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike sees Illyria peek in for a few seconds before quickly vanishing. He's noticed she's been doing that a lot more often lately.

Spike pounces and they end up rolling around on the floor in a bizarre, vampire ball. Fangs flash, eyes glow gold. It's more of a half-assed attempt at a proper fight than anything; even Angel has resorted to amateurish methods such as hair-pulling.

Then Angel pins him to the floor. Crushes his lips to Spike's. There's a slight tang of pig's blood and day-old coffee.

It's referred to as "makeup sex". Couples sometimes do this. Spike and Angel only do this. The Double F's, Spike has taken to calling it: Fight and Fuck.

Angel needs the former; Spike needs the latter. The Double F's are the few ways they can play-pretend that they are just like everyone else, feeling fine and free of haunting ghosts.

It's a little perverted. Unhealthy to be sure. But it's a workable system.

And that's all that matters.

The next day, he does it. Since he's still convinced what happened yesterday was not his fault, he's not altogether sure why does it. As though...as though he's looking for Angel's approval? Oh, good Lord, no. Nope, it's not that. He's still not sure what it is, but it's certainly not that...

Either way it's done. No taking it back now.

He steps back a little to admire his work and decides he did do a rather nice job of assembling the thing, considering only one hand was fully operational.

The door cracks open.

"Spike, why the hell are you in my—oh." Angel stops short as he sees the antique-ish oak desk sitting exactly where the older, now-defunct one used to be.

He walks over slowly. Runs a hand over the glossy finish. Spike can tell he likes it.

"Where'd you get it?"

Spike shrugs and breathes out a nervous stream of smoke. "Not important."

Angel looks up. "Thanks. It...it's nice." He smiles a little.

Spike shifts awkwardly. "Just try not to smash it, too, yeah?"

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Tell me what you think...this will probably wrap up soon. 


	4. Pictures

**A/N: **Wow, long chapter here (compared to my other ones, anyway)

This is the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and especially to ShinodaBear, who fed me feedback every time. :-)

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Ch. 4: Pictures

He tried to see them again today. Thought maybe he could do it now. Turns out he still can't. Can't see them as they were before the blood and mangled corpses.

Can't stand Angel's muteness, either. It's gotten to the point where he'll do anything to make Angel talk. Well, nearly anything; a bloke's gotta have his pride.

One of these things include directing inquires at Angel whenever the occasion arises and sometimes not even then.

"Where're we going?"

Angel merely shoots him an "I-know-what-you're-doing-so-don't-even-bother" look and continues on his way.

Spike is at a loss as to why he wants Angel to talk so much. Time was he couldn't wait for him to shut up. Maybe it's because it's only natural to want what is rare, and Angel speaking definitely falls into that category.

More aimless walking tonight. More wandering into a bar. More drinking—except Spike has decided to stick with whiskey this time.

It is always like this, the pointless drifting between warm bodies, one trying to fill the silence and the other draining the noise. During the first intermission, they'll head home and usually Angel is up for a shag. A dream frequently occurs during the second intermission. If not, Illyria wakes them both, usually by breaking something. Then the play starts all over again.

Spike sodding well hates plays. Always has.

One of the many girls latches herself onto his arm. He starts to turn to tell her to leave him alone, but the words can't quite make it out of his mouth. Because the prostitute is suddenly not one at all. She is Her and Her head is grotesquely twisted to one side. One blue eye remains; blood trickles out of it. Chunks of flesh are missing. Streams of red flow from her scalp and drip from the ends of her blond hair. Mangled fingers with missing fingernails clutch a broken stake.

_--"Spike?"--_

_--"yeah, pet?"-- _

"C'mon, baby," she purrs. "I'll make it good." A plump, white maggot slithers from her mouth.

_--"Angel...where...where's Angel?"--_

Spike stumbles back with a horrified cry, knocking astray several pedestrians who curse loudly, and suddenly he's bolting. He doesn't even realize it until he hears footsteps behind him and a voice in the distance.

_--"sshh, luv. He's fine. Just a little banged up, is all."-- _

"Spike! Dammit, slow down!"

Slow down? No, no way in hell is he doing that.

He doesn't slow down until his legs ache and his knees are weak and he can no longer stay upright. Only then does he collapse onto his hands and knees. Cold tears drip into the asphalt, and as harsh sobs are torn from his chest, it's too much to even remain on all fours, so he curls up on to his side, barely noticing that he is lying in a puddle of rainwater. Rainwater diluted with tears. Tears that are not of grief or pain or nostalgia, but of utter shock and terror. He can still see the image very clearly. He will forever see her now.

Stupid, bleedin' cow. Couldn't she have hit on someone else? Someone without issues, without ever-present shadows of Before?

Hands haul him up and out of the puddle and all of a sudden, he finds himself in Angel's lap and he is clinging to Angel because he would certainly plummet into permanent insanity otherwise.

Spike fumbles in the pockets of his jacket for a smoke and his lighter. He finds both without problem, but his still-trembling hands won't let the flame meet the target.

Angel takes the silver lighter and does it for him.

"Thanks."

Angel nods.

"Saw her," Spike says.

Angel hasn't asked, but Spike feels compelled to tell him anyway. Perhaps he's hoping that the memory will fade a little by sharing.

"I saw her and she was dead, you know." Spike rolls up tighter until his forehead touches his knees, the heels of his boots digging into Angel's thighs. "Oh God, she was dead and rotting and bloody and ohjesusfuckingbloodychrist—"

"Sshh." Fingers stroke his hair gently. "Hush, Will. It's okay."

Spike snorts and laughs derisively. It borders on hysteria and sounds not quite sane to his ears.

Things will never be okay. He wants to scream that, to take Angel by the shoulders and shake him until the idiot acknowledges that things are never okay and that shutting up and avoiding all subjects that pertain to Before will never help make things okay...

Angel's staring at him, eyes wide.

Spike is on a verge of muttering, "What?" when he realizes he did scream all those things.

"You think it'll go away, everything?" he whispers, swiping at his eyes and slipping off onto the concrete beside Angel. "If you ignore it enough, fuck me enough?"

Angel shakes his head. "That's not why—"

"Shut up!" Spike jumps to his feet and starts pacing. "Bloody hell, Angel, if you gotta lie, do it. But don't fucking lie to me when I'm of concern." He stubs out his smouldering cigarette against the red-bricked wall. Takes out the nearly-empty pack and tries to tap another smoke out, but his hands are shaking again. Fuck. Why the hell are they shaking again?

"Will..."

Spike whirls around. Hurls his Zippo at the stupid bastard. He's too pissed off to aim properly, but Angel's too dumbfounded to duck properly as well. The lighter bounces off Angel's temple and shatters on the dirty concrete.

"Truth's all I got," Spike says softly.

Angel reaches up absently to wipe away the blood trickling from the wound while staring at the remains of the lighter.

Spike runs a hand nervously through his hair, trying to keep from completely losing it. Walks around a bit and scuffs his toe against the ground.

"What do you think I've got?" Angel replies at length.

"What you've got?" Spike yells back, whatever calm he'd attained during Angel's silence dissipating instantly. "You've got everything! Your pet mortals died loving you. Your kid loves you, wherever he is. I stayed with Buffy until the very end and it was your name she whispered." He chews viciously on the end of an unlit cigarette. "Dru loves you, too. You know that? You made her bleed every night and then you abandoned her and you tried to dust her, but she always screamed your name in bed. So what have I got, Angel? The naked truth and a clique of mutilated corpses in my head that never go away." It comes out a tad more bitter than he intended. Maybe even a little whiny. He doesn't care.

Angel shifts from one foot to the other, as though contemplating his next move. Then he takes a hesitant step forward. Spike doesn't back away and Angel apparently takes this as a sign of consent because he takes another step until he's closed the distance between them.

Spike stares at his feet. Traces some random patterns with the toe of his boot.

"The past, she don't let go." Angel sounds as though he's quoting someone. Spike searches his mind, but he can't recall those lines in any poetry or books he might've read. And he'd give a response of some sort relating to the current topic, but all he can think of doing is yell some more and hit Angel on the head until not even vampiric strength could save the poor sod.

But he doesn't do that because it'd just lead to the Double F's again, and while Spike usually does not turn down a good shag, he would really prefer one without some bizarre, twisted, ulterior motive underlying it.

"Can we go home?" he asks instead.

Angel nods slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

- - - - - - - - - - -

He's gone when Spike wakes up later, but there's a folder in his place.

Spike picks it up curiously and something flutters to the carpet, landing face-up. He recognizes her instantly, even without the help of colour, without the recognizable blond hair.

There are more sketches in the folder. Willow, Drusilla, more Buffy, Fred...hell, even Xander's here.

Something moves in the shadows and Spike looks up to find Angel hovering by the doorway.

"I remember you mentioned something about pictures once," he says.

Spike personally doesn't recall saying anything like that to Angel, but he must have. He's glad he did, at any rate.

"You just gonna stand there, or are you going to come here?"

Angel might've done it or purpose. Or perhaps it was simply Fate. Whatever it was, Angel's elbow ended up poking Spike in the side, causing him to jump a little and squirm.

A positively wicked and completely out of character grin graces his sire's face, and before he can figure out what's going on, Angel has him flat on his back and straddled. And tickled.

"Stop it!" Spike gasps, giggling and writhing under light fingertips.

His giggles are suddenly cut off when Angel leans down and kisses him, brown eyes sparkling. Angel is in a curiously blithe mood today. Spike is fairly certain he was never like this even Before.

"What the hell's gotten into you, Angel?" Spike asks when he can finally speak.

Angel's hand traces over his chest, heading south.

"Does it matter?"

Spike pauses, contemplating.

"No," he decides finally. "No, it doesn't."

"Good."

And Spike would be lying if he said the past was finally letting go. Angel is right; she never would.

But her grip is no longer as strong, and that's good enough for him.

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End. 

Hope you enjoyed it. :)


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